When would the artists, raise their voice.

I wondered. I cried out. In silence.

Beckoning for those with vision
to express a truth so clear to see.

To uplift Him. Above the dollars.

To finally make it all make some sense.

In the darkness, I sparked my own light.
A candle, a small shadow dancing
as my fingers made the gesture.

In a dream, that orientation became a dance.
Not yet. Not ever. Not then.
Not you. Not them.

Just Him working through me.

One step, two footprints.

A metaphor as old as sand.

And an artist, this one,
finally holding on to His hand.